Chapter Ten
Of all the many ways I’d been rudely woken over the last week—bellowing from the street below my flat, the slam of cell doors,
the reek of a poxed guard striding down the hall—it was the sudden smell of fur and a warm, wet tongue licking my nose that
startled me most.
My eyes snapped open, and for one disorienting moment, I couldn’t recall where I was or why my body ached like I’d parted
company with a horse mid-gallop.
But, of course, I hadn’t fallen. I’d been pushed.
From a rapidly moving curricle.
Which had then unceremoniously exploded.
After I had somehow negotiated a new life for myself with a dying King.
And before that, there had been Fairgate and a haughty stranger with a bargain I couldn’t refuse. Somewhere in the mix, there
had been not one, not two, but three baths.
Rather eventful, the prior evening. Or had it been morning? God, what time was it?
The sunlight was warm and golden, signaling late morning. I sat straight up, letting the bedclothes pool in my lap. While
most Patricians woke near luncheon after a night of soirees or operas or whatever frivolity the Season offered, I hadn’t slept
past sunrise in . . . well, ever.
The bedchamber around me was somehow even grander in the daylight, its colors darling and softer than a young lady’s dreams,
every surface all but glittering with remembered delight of the pile of coins that had been spent on it.
And then my gaze fell to the other side of the bed, where it met the suspicious regard of the tiny creature draped over the
pillow beside my own. As the sun danced through the waving branches of a nearby tree, I could have sworn its enormous watery
brown eyes gleamed with a hint of red.
“Good morning?” I tried, swallowing against the dryness of my throat.
The dog—a spaniel—huffed, crossing one thin leg over the other before lowering its head onto it.
Barely larger than a loaf of bread, its white-and-chestnut coat had been brushed to glossy perfection, with a pink bow tied on each long ear.
I reached out to stroke the soft curve of her head, only to rear back as the fiend snapped her teeth at me.
“I bite back,” I warned. The dog returned to her comfortable repose with a huff. “Well, aren’t you just a prime article?”
She didn’t even smell like a dog to me; the rose-sweetened scent of the house clung to her, along with the lather of the honey soap used for her
most recent bath. The very soap favored by the humans of the household. But there was also something else there, too—jagged
and musty, like old bones—that must have been her adorable personality shining through.
I shifted, stretching my legs out beneath the cool linen sheets and coverlet. A fresh twinge of discomfort accompanied the
odd feeling of bandages tightening across my back.
Right. The dratted ointment.
I reached down, brushing the bandage around my ankle. Felicity had insisted on changing it last night after I’d gotten yet
another scrubbing and wide-eyed questioning about why the earl and I were covered in soot and mud.
The thought of Foxcourt seemed to dim even the daylight pouring through the windowpanes. A memory of his pallid face as he’d
thrown himself over me flashed in my mind.
I had gladly handed him off to Mrs. Keyes and the footmen for their care and cooing, though he’d seemed hardly worse for wear.
And here I’d thought all the soft-soled aristocrats had the constitutions of newborn hedgehogs.
My hand rose, reaching for the familiar weight of Mama’s pearl pendant, only finding bed-warmed skin and the soft lawn of
my night rail. I closed my eyes and sighed. At least I hadn’t had it at Fairgate. It would have been ripped from my neck in
an instant. If I could just return to my lodging and retrieve it, I’d feel better. But there was no way of going without bringing
Foxcourt there, too. I knew that now.
I forced my eyes back open.
Unless . . . I looked to the window, surprised to find that it had swung open at some point in the night. I gauged the distance
between the sill and the nearest tree branch.
The dog growled.
“I was only considering it,” I informed her. It made me feel better, somehow, to know that I could. Foxcourt would never have to know until the necklace appeared. And it would mean being able to bring Mama’s journal here
as well. While I had committed most of her notes to memory, I had a feeling I’d have need of it eventually.
The dog swiveled her head toward the door, and a moment later, there was a knock and Felicity’s head, frilly cap and all,
poked inside. Her cheeks were flushed a lovely rose, and her green eyes shone brightly—until her gaze landed on the dog.
“Brigadier, you goblin! How did you get in here?” she said, setting a pitcher of water down beside the basin on the dresser.
Brigadier? I blinked. Well, she did have a commanding presence, I supposed.
“It’s all right,” I began, but Felicity had already crossed the room, fearlessly snatching the snarling, beribboned demon
off the pillow and setting her down outside the door. She shut it firmly, but not before giving the creature an admonishing
shake of the finger.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Lockwood,” Felicity continued, flapping her hands in helpless irritation. “I fear Slip and Sneak have been teaching
her all sorts of unhelpful tricks, including how to open doors. She’s a right terror.”
I swung my legs around, planting my feet on the plush carpet. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I asked, “Slip and Sneak?”
Felicity straightened like she’d touched a hot fireplace poker. “Oh—I mean, that is—it’s what we call, erm, called Tommy and
Willie. They’ve always been imps, see.”
I did. It fit the Brothers Longmount somehow.
“Is Brigadier Fleming’s pet?” I asked, remembering his essence.
“He cares for her now, but she was Lord Foxcourt’s prized princess,” Felicity said, her voice softening. “You’ll never meet
a stranger, more spoilt creature, I’m afraid—sniping and biting everyone who spares her a look she doesn’t like.”
“She’s better mannered than some people I know, then,” I said.
Felicity laughed. “You say that, but if she gets out, she’ll chase deliverymen halfway down the street until they refuse to
return. And she won’t eat unless it’s from the palm of your hand and you give her a little tune. Have you ever heard of such
a thing? Fleming is the only one who’ll do it, and she doesn’t seem fond of his singing—though I can’t say many of us are.”
I found my opinion of the butler warming considerably, despite the way he’d acted the night before. “Is there a song she likes in particular?”
“She seems to enjoy the old fairy ballads,” Felicity said with a shake of her head. “The more depressing, the better.”
A breeze snuck through the window, ruffling the bed curtains. Felicity turned to me. “Tried to escape last night, did you?”
I paled. “No, of course not—”
“I was only teasing,” she said, latching it. “It’s an old house and it seems to have its moods. You’ll notice these things
after a while—the way the walls hoot like an owl when the wind comes from the south, the drawings on the old nursery’s walls,
that if you stand in front of a particular door on the third floor and whisper it’ll carry all the way down to the entry . . .
and then there’s the fox family that likes to use the jib door as a den. Lord Foxcourt used to say that if kits emerged in
the summer it’s a sign of a good year to come.”
My smile strained. I wouldn’t be here long enough to notice half of what she’d mentioned. I searched for a clock. “It must
be so late . . .”
“Hardly, given your adventures last night,” Felicity said. Her eyes softened with worry. “You’re certain you’re well?”
“I’m in one piece,” I assured her. “Though I feel terribly guilty about the dress . . . I promise I’ll replace it.”
Felicity drew back. “Of course not. Everything in the trousseau was purchased for your use. It’s all yours.”
“I beg your bloody pardon,” I sputtered. “Trousseau?”
“That’s what it would be called, wouldn’t it?” Felicity began, suddenly fretful. “I’ve been studying Miss Mannerly’s Guide for Proper Ladies for a character, and the wardrobe was referred to that way.”
“I think it is more commonly referred to that way for brides,” I managed to get out.
Felicity nodded, reaching into her apron’s pocket for a piece of foolscap and a nub of a pencil, quickly making a note of
it.
“Felicity,” I began, “exactly how many dresses do I have at my disposal?”
“Only a handful, I’m afraid,” Felicity said, restoring her paper and pencil to her apron. “Now that I know your measurements,
I’ve sent word to the modiste to order a few more practical options in darker colors—I thought it wise, given you’ll be working
with oils.”
“And riding in exploding coaches,” I said.
She snorted. “Speaking of which, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked her to remake that lovely blue dress. It suited you
so well.”
It really had been lovely. “Here’s to hoping it survives longer than the last one, then.”
Felicity made the sign of the holy wheel and winked.
“Who is the modiste?” I asked.
“Madame Audette—do you know of her?”
She had been a mainstay on Bridle Street for decades, even crafting gowns for the late Queen. Passing her shop had been like
stealing a glimpse of heaven.
“Yes,” I said wryly. “I think I’ve heard of her.”
I was only surprised Foxcourt had gone to such a renowned dressmaker for his prisoner.
Felicity crossed the room to the large armoire situated between the two windows. Turning the brass key in its lock, she threw
the doors open with a soft hum and began her assessment.
Last night, from the angle of the bath, I hadn’t been able to see inside the wardrobe. Now, the room seemed to spiral around
me as I came to stand beside her.
The handful of dresses inside, folded neatly, were sumptuous. Pale creamy-white muslin confections, soft rosebud-pink and
butter-yellow silks, a modest earthen-brown walking dress. There were even two with patterns: a lilac morning dress with green
and white stripes, and a walking dress lavished with elegant florals.